Their imprisonment had caused them to lose something that they had always taken for granted. He still wasn’t the same. The stress of trying to rebuild had become too much for his father, something Riku never realized until many years later. Less than a year after the family was freed, he died of a heart attack, leaving Riku to be raised by his mother, who worked in a grocery store just like the family had once owned. But he could tell that she was changed too. The lightness she always had in her steps, her easy laughter, the merriment that shone in her eyes, her smile, was gone.
Lost in his memories, Riku sank into a deep silence. And still the two women, each seeming now to blend into the other, waited. Perhaps they could guess what was in his mind; perhaps they had suffered too. Maybe that was why he felt this sudden familiarity with these two strangers.
“I never wanted children of my own. Never had a desire for them because my early years had been so difficult. Eventually, that all changed when I met my wife, Jenny. So now I find myself with four little ones, all under ten, and I am already fifty-seven years old!” At those words, for the first time since he had entered the home, Riku felt a lightness wash over him as a smile came to his lips.
Esther was the first to rise from her seat on the couch.
“Mr. Matsuda, I believe you will make a great tenant for this house.”
“Good!” Riku answered promptly as he rose to his feet. “I’ll take it.”
TWENTY-THREE
Zalman, 1983
By the time word reached Zalman, it was too late. All he could do after learning about his best friend’s death was sit quiet as a stone for several days. No one, not even Miriam, could coax him out of the bottomless hole. His best friend dead. How was this possible? His last breaths taken without Zalman by his side. Zalman, who had been there during the darkest times, when both Jacob and Esther were sure they were facing their last glimpses of this dreary earth. But there were times of joy, too, when they had been together, tasting the first delicious drops of freedom, men in love with the life they had begun anew. Yet now—Why wasn’t he there?
It was the cousin who told him, Moshe, who had arranged for his travels to Minnesota all those years ago, and who now revealed the news as calmly as if he were telling him to put on a sweater to shield himself from the cold. Jacob had gone to bed one night and then . . . and then. That was it. Zalman hadn’t asked any questions then and couldn’t see the point of it. When he put down the phone that had delivered the news that sent him spinning back in time, it was as if something in his mind boomeranged, and for several days he couldn’t regain his balance. Immediately, at 8:00 p.m. that evening, when on any other day he would be taking off his slippers, readying himself for a hot shower, he decided to go for a walk.
“Just going out to clear my head,” he announced, putting his hand on the metal knob, before a blast of cold air slapped against his cheeks. He walked for blocks, as he had done on numerous occasions since they had moved to the town of Highland Park in New Jersey, where his cousin’s best friend had lived for the past twenty years—not a grand metropolis like New York, but not a farm either. Also, his friend knew of a piece of business for Zalman, something to call his own. He had resolved long ago never to work for anyone else again.
So Zalman walked in this place he had barely lived in for a year, ignoring the vibrant sounds of the neighborhood, still alive with shoppers, strollers, and men winding their way through the thinning crowds—the Hasidim, Hispanics, Irish, and Italians as they came home from work. Zalman saw none of it. Not the young couples strolling under leafless trees, the dogs straining on leashes, shop owners sitting on hastily stationed bridge chairs outside, nodding at potential customers as they passed by. Today, as his eyes fixed on the scattered cigarette butts, rumpled sales receipts, and empty paper cups that rolled underneath the parked cars, he saw none of it. Instead, he had one thought swirling through his mind. It would have been so easy to call her, express his sympathy, suggest they meet for a coffee. So easy. So devastating, for the minute he allowed his mind to fixate on the idea, he was swamped by a sea of guilt, drowning, unable to breathe.
After about twenty minutes, he was lost. He couldn’t find his way back home; the street numbers blurred, and the sounds of the neighborhood rolled into each other, creating a wild cacophony from which he could not escape. Zalman stopped at a street corner, trying to find his way, before realizing, finally, that he didn’t want to go home at all. Lost, at least for now, was better.
TWENTY-FOUR